A Court of Appeals
by Syldana
Summary: [Yaoi] TezuRyo. TezukaxRyoma. Futurefic. Seigaku tennis coach Tezuka Kunimitsu goes to recruit a talented boy for the team, and finds something else he'd been seeking for a very long time. [complete]
1. Sensei

**Disclaimer:** Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi and other people who are not me.

* * *

**A Court of Appeals**

part 1

Taking one last glance at the paper in his hand, Tezuka Kunimitsu pulled his car over to the curb and turned off the engine. This appeared to be the correct address. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, the house in question loomed before him, not extravagantly large like the monstrosity Atobe liked to call home, but it was large all the same. The surrounding area was clearly a cut above the average middle-class neighborhood. He merely noted the fact as a random bit of information, however, trying not to let it unduly affect him as he made his way to the door. Nevertheless, he could almost hear Inui's voice murmuring "good data" in his head as he lifted his hand and knocked. Almost a full minute passed before the door finally opened, and Tezuka found himself gazing down at the boy he had, indeed, come to see.

"Tezuka-sensei!" the boy exclaimed, wide brown eyes peering up at him in surprise beneath a tousled mop of matching brown hair. He held two cans of unopened Ponta clutched awkwardly against his chest as his other hand held the door aloft.

"Ryuzaki-kun," Tezuka addressed him, "is your father at home? There is something I would like to discuss with the both of you."

"Y-yes, Sensei," the boy replied, his young face crumpling as he shot a worried glance behind him. "He's out back. Is this about… that?" he asked with a slight wince.

"It is," Tezuka returned with a nod.

"I really don't want to bother him with that," Ryuzaki protested softly, glancing over his shoulder once again. "I already told you what he thinks. He just doesn't care for school sports and stuff."

"I would like to hear the reasons for that myself," Tezuka said firmly. "I would also appreciate a chance to change his mind."

"But…"

Tezuka raised a single questioning brow.

The boy sighed in defeat. "Ok," he said, opening the door further to let him in. "This way, Sensei."

Tezuka followed the boy through a comfortably furnished Western-style living room to a large sliding door near the back of the kitchen. Ryuzaki Sakuya hesitated but a moment before tugging it open and continuing outside. As Tezuka stepped out into the backyard, his eyes widened slightly in surprise. He didn't know what he had expected, but a full tennis court along the length of it was not anything close. And Sakuya had said his father didn't like sports? No, it was _school_ sports. Puzzlement creased his brow at the apparent conundrum.

The boy walked up to a figure dressed in shorts and a light polo shirt reclining back on a lounge chair and silently offered one of the Ponta cans. Without looking up from the book he was reading, the man reached out and took hold of the can, wordlessly nodding a brief acknowledgment.

"We have a guest, Dad," Sakuya mumbled quietly, gazing down at his own feet.

At that, the man glanced up at his son, and then turned his head toward Tezuka and halted. And stared. At least, he seemed to be staring; it was hard to tell where exactly his eyes were directed behind the dark pair of sunglasses adorning his face.

For a minute, Tezuka merely returned his stare, taking the time to apprehend and examine the man's appearance. Sakuya didn't resemble his father much. Instead of a warm, chocolate brown, his hair was a dark, glossy black that jutted down to his shoulders in chaotic angles. He was not a large man, though his physique clearly argued the strong, well-toned muscles of an athlete. And still the man stared at him, unmoving, as if completely taken aback by Tezuka's own appearance. It was then that Tezuka's manners finally kicked in as he recalled his purpose for being there. He bowed before him, low and formal.

"How do you do, Ryuzaki-san?" he greeted courteously. "Please forgive the intrusion. My name is Tezuka Kunimitsu and I am the tennis coach at Seishun Gakuen." He straightened. "I would like to talk to you about your son." He waited then for a response, but, oddly, there was none immediately forthcoming. It was Sakuya who finally broke the silence.

"Ah, Sensei," the boy said, fidgeting anxiously with the can in his hands, "he's not… that is, my father's not—"

"Sakuya." The name was spoken softly and without any trace of admonition, yet the boy instantly stilled. "Why don't you go up to your room and start your homework?" he suggested, his attention trained wholly on Tezuka.

"Ok, Dad," he replied, his voice quiet and troubled.

"Don't worry," Ryuzaki said, giving him a small, reassuring smile.

Sakuya nodded mutely in return, and actually did appear to calm a little. Then he bowed briefly to them both before turning to make his way back into the house, sliding the door shut behind him.

Tossing the book down on the lounge chair, Ryuzaki rose to his feet, carefully watching Tezuka the entire time. There came an overly loud _pop_ as the can of Ponta was opened. Tezuka absently noted the distinctive purple coloring on the can as Ryuzaki took a long, healthy swig. He tried not to let it bother him, but as usual failed miserably. With a surge of determination, he shoved the memory of bright golden eyes out of his mind.

"So… Tezuka-sensei, is it?" the man drawled, his arms casually crossing his chest, the can still clasped in his hand.

Tezuka couldn't be certain, but it sounded as if the "sensei" had been somewhat accentuated. He wondered if it was really school sports and not just school in general that the man had a problem with. He gave a short nod in response to the clarifying question.

"Your son was invited to play a game today after school by one of our regulars," Tezuka said. "I have to admit, I was extremely surprised that he hadn't joined the tennis club already when I saw his skill level. I'm sure you must know how talented he is."

Ryuzaki's mouth curved ever-so slightly. "I'm well aware of Sakuya's abilities."

"Then would you be open to the idea of allowing him to play for Seigaku?" he asked. "I'm sure Sakuya—"

"No," he said flatly, abruptly cutting him off, his stance and expression never wavering.

Tezuka found himself instantly annoyed by the man's overt bluntness and shrouded stare. Carefully maintaining his composure, he tried again. "I'm sure Sakuya would greatly benefit from—"

"Just because my son has exceptional skills, Sensei," he broke in again, "doesn't mean they should automatically be available to you in order to obtain your precious trophies."

Startled, Tezuka blinked. "I assure you, that is not—"

"Isn't it?" he interrupted sharply, once again. "You want your team to win, don't you? In fact, I bet you want your school to go all the way to the Nationals. Sakuya could definitely help out in that direction if the rest of your team is any good at all."

Tezuka felt himself go cold. His eyelids narrowed. "You insult me, Ryuzaki-san," he said brusquely. "My only interest is in the growth and well-being of my students. It is my job to help them reach their full potential as players, and, yes, as a team we strive toward the Nationals. Having that goal in front of them inspires them to work hard and to do their best."

"Except, Sensei, you are merely assuming that that is what's best for them," he countered. "Yes, it is your job to teach those students who have chosen to join the tennis club. However, you are here for my son, are you not? Sakuya is not one of your students. I find your presumption arrogant that he would be better off playing tennis for you rather than for himself."

Frowning inwardly, Tezuka paused to consider his words. "It has been my experience, Ryuzaki-san, that a person improves more by playing as many different opponents as possible. It may not be the only way, but I do believe that is something the school tennis club can offer your son. It is also my personal belief that Sakuya wants to join, but doesn't out of deference to you. When I asked him, he said he couldn't because his father doesn't like school sports."

Ryuzaki's chin lifted, his nostrils flaring in defiance. "You think I'm holding him back? Everything I do is for my son, _Sensei_," he said, a low growl ruffling his voice. "You think you can do a better job with him than I can? I know full well that Sakuya could learn a lot by playing a variety of opponents, and probably quite swiftly, too. However, it is still just your own damned arrogance presuming that the quicker and sooner that happens, the better. You are assuming that Sakuya is emotionally prepared for everything that accompanies your beloved school tournaments just because the playing potential is there."

"Everything that comes with the tournaments?" Tezuka repeated, completely bewildered by the idea. "I don't think there is anything all that negative about participating in the tournaments—unless you believe the possibility of losing to be too traumatic for him."

The man snorted. "Oh, please, he loses to me all the time, and if he seriously lost to someone his own age… well, that certainly could change his outlook on the game, but it would hardly traumatize him. This just reaffirms to me that you have no clue about what's best for my son."

"Then please explain it to me," Tezuka said, frustration starting to gnaw at his insides. "I think Sakuya's potential is too great to be ignored. I haven't seen a player with skills like his in years. Not since…" Steeling himself, he literally had to force the words out of his mouth. "Not since Echizen Ryoma."

Ryuzaki just stared at him through the dark tint of his sunglasses, his mouth a thin, straight line. "Echizen Ryoma, huh?" he said finally. "Fine. Let's talk about Echizen Ryoma, then. A perfect example of the point I'm trying to make."

Tezuka immediately regretted bringing him up, his stomach already protesting as it churned and twisted within his gut. He had no desire at all to talk about Echizen.

"He was twelve when he turned pro," Ryuzaki began, completely oblivious to Tezuka's current discomfort. "The same age Sakuya is now. By the time he was sixteen, he had won all four Grand Slam titles—twice."

"Your point is?" he prompted, when Ryuzaki paused for dramatic effect. He wanted to get this over with.

"My point is simple: Where is he now?"

The question bit into him deeply, just as it always did, as it had from the moment the world had begun to ask it. "No one knows the answer to that," he replied, trying to keep his voice normal, trying to suppress the dull, desolate ache roiling hollowly within. "No one has heard from him since his retirement."

"Yes, and he retired when he only was sixteen," Ryuzaki stated coolly, matter-of-factly, and then paused again to take a sip of his drink. "I don't know about you," he went on, "but I don't want Sakuya's career to be over before he's even finished puberty. My point is, Sensei, there is no need to rush it.

"Sakuya loves tennis," he continued, his voice softening a little. "_Loves_ it. He loves it even more than y… well, more than anyone else I know. He doesn't really care right now if he wins or loses; he just loves to play. I don't see any reason to burden him with the weight of tournament pressures at this stage of his life. He's young. He doesn't need you to push him right now, Sensei."

"But what if it _is_ what he wants?" Tezuka asked, feeling benumbed and empty, yet was somehow unable to let this go. "What if he's deliberately holding himself back because he believes that's what _you_ want?"

Ryuzaki frowned at that, his head angling speculatively toward the court for a long, deliberating while. "If that is the case, then he can do what he likes," he murmured finally, the timbre of his voice quiet and subdued.

"Tell you what, Sensei," he said, his tone changing abruptly, his gaze sliding calculatingly back to him. "Why don't we play a match? If you win, I'll talk to Sakuya and find out which of us is right. If I win, you drop this whole thing."

Taken aback, it took Tezuka a moment to absorb his words, and the meaning that lay behind them. "You want to play me… for Sakuya?"

A small smirk lit up Ryuzaki's features. "Yep. I haven't had a decent game in years." With that, he strolled over to the large round patio table behind him and set down the Ponta can. There were several rackets lying arbitrarily about; Ryuzaki picked up a red one from the table.

"Take whichever you like," he said with a flourishing wave of his arm. "I assume you're still in good shape, Tezuka Kunimitsu-sensei."

Tezuka arched a brow in surprise as the realization struck him. "You know who I am."

"Yeah," he returned with a grin. "I lived around here back then. Seigaku won the Nationals that year. I remember you, all right, though I hadn't heard you were coaching there now." Ryuzaki tilted his head sideways, eyeing him intently. "I always thought you would go pro someday."

"The timing was never right," Tezuka replied smoothly, as he usually responded whenever that particular question was raised. Then he bent down and retrieved a light blue racket that seemed as comparable to his own as he could find. He carefully tested the strings with his fingers and deemed them adequate.

The sensible portion of his mind was secretly wondering why he was so readily agreeing to this unusual challenge, and the ridiculous bet that went along with it. He was actually gambling on a student—_for_ a student—and had yet to truly protest the morality of such an unscrupulous thing. What was he doing? And why was his whole being itching with anticipation for this game?

"A simple one set match. As you are my guest, you can serve first," Ryuzaki said as he wandered onto the right side of the court, stretching his arms as he went. It appeared he was a left-handed player, like himself.

Nodding in reply, Tezuka snagged a couple of tennis balls randomly off the ground and moved to the opposite side of the court. For some reason, his body was already charged with galvanizing adrenaline. This man beat Sakuya all the time, huh? It was time to find out just how far the apple fell from the tree.

Tossing the ball high into the air, Tezuka followed through with a hard smash of his racket. If Sakuya's future was truly on the line here, then he would definitely be playing for keeps. In a flash, the ball bounced perfectly in the opposing service box and kept right on going.

Ryuzaki glanced over at the ball a moment and then back up at him. "Che, I really am rusty," he muttered, though the grin on his face grew incongruently fiercer. He bent his knees further in primed anticipation.

Tezuka served again, straight, fast and clean, and Ryuzaki moved this time, quick as lightning, to intercept the ball, and sent a return ace crashing back into the far corner of the court. For a second, Tezuka's breath caught in his throat. Staring dazedly at the man across the net, he could feel the speed of his pulse greatly increase until the blood was racing swiftly, wildly, through his veins with a familiar fervor.

Just how long had it been since _he_ had played a decent game? Tezuka could hardly remember, and whenever he tried, it was always the games he had played against Echizen that came to mind. He had never felt anything as marvelous or exciting as that ever since.

Why? The question needled him as he readied himself for another serve. Why had he ever given this up? Yet as the ball sailed expeditiously past his opponent for the second time, he already knew the answer. Two more serves and he had taken the first game.

"Heh, not bad, Sensei," Ryuzaki said, bouncing a ball before him, still brandishing that wicked grin. "But now it's my turn."

The form of his serve was common, one Tezuka had seen many times before, yet after the sharp swing of Ryuzaki's racket, he never saw the ball again. He heard it, though, as it hit the ground somewhere before him and then the fence at his back. He couldn't move. He could hardly breathe. _Never_ had he seen anything so perfect. The level of this man's ability was phenomenal. In an instant Tezuka knew that he had never faced anyone this good before.

Ryuzaki simply grinned and cocked his head as if about to say something, but then appeared to change his mind. He pulled another ball from his pocket instead and sent it roaring past him the same as the first. And then the third. And the fourth.

Not even ten minutes had passed, yet Tezuka's entire body was already covered in a thin layer of sweat as they wordlessly exchanged places. Ryuzaki's grin had dimmed as a more serious atmosphere seemed to steal over the court.

One game all.

It was Tezuka's turn again, and he knew that he had to keep his service game if he wanted to win this. If there was even a chance of winning this. He hit another service ace, but then Ryuzaki returned his second serve once again. Tezuka was better prepared this time and moved to intercept the ball.

They rallied back and forth for a while after that, carefully testing each other's strength with every stroke of the racket, and with each stroke, Tezuka's body remembered. He knew this game. He loved playing like this. His eyes watched the ball scrupulously as his arm began to swing with polished precision, slowly, painstakingly, creating the Zone. His feet stopped moving near the center of the court as he fell into position, and then merely pivoted his body in place as needed.

Ryuzaki's mouth pursed as he took note of it, but then quirked up as he subtly shifted his arm. His next return broke free of the Zone and bounded into the left corner and out.

"Fifteen all," Ryuzaki said, that small, insolent grin taunting him once more.

Outwardly ignoring him, Tezuka inwardly calmed himself while recovering several balls from the ground, pocketing a few, and then proceeded to serve again. He allowed himself to feel a certain amount of satisfaction when Ryuzaki missed his next two serves. The man did manage to hit the third, however, and another intense rally began. With a twist of his wrist, Tezuka ended it with an impeccable drop volley. The satisfaction felt particularly good just then. He was quick to shrug it off, however, when Ryuzaki positioned himself for his serve.

Concentrating intently on the ball, Tezuka strove to keep it in sight; he had to get the timing down if he had any chance at all of returning it. By the third serve, he still couldn't see it very well, but by the added sound of the ball's bounce, he had a good idea where it was. On the fourth serve, he reached for it, only to have it strike the side of his racket and go rolling off behind him. Still, he had indeed found it.

His expression did not betray his inner excitement as they traded places again. Above the rim of his sunglasses, however, Ryuzaki raised a dark, venerating eyebrow to him as they passed.

Two games all. They were still tied and neither had lost a service game.

Ryuzaki seemed to easily catch his next serve, though Tezuka doubted that was truly the case. As the ball shot back and forth between them, Tezuka once again initiated the Zone, yet this time implemented a tad more subtlety. His feet continued to move across the court, but this was merely an illusion as the ball returned to the precise place he was sending it, giving himself plenty of time to reach it. Fortunately Tezuka won several points before Ryuzaki figured it out.

"Heh, tricky," was all he said, though, before breaching the Zone once again. Tezuka still took the game, however, with a clean ace on his final serve.

Leaning forward, he readied himself for Ryuzaki's serve. It took him two tries before he finally hit it properly, and took a point from Ryuzaki out of his sheer surprise.

"Thirty - fifteen," Tezuka said coolly, unable to restrain himself.

The corner of Ryuzaki's mouth twitched, but he said nothing in response. He simply served again, testing to see if Tezuka's return was intentional or merely a fluke. Tezuka swung again and sent the ball flying back crosscourt, where Ryuzaki hastened to receive it.

As they fell once more into the celeritous rhythm of a fierce rally, Tezuka could feel his heart pounding violently within his chest, and not from the rigorous excursions of the court. The excitement, the sweet adrenaline high he was currently basking in, was excruciatingly delicious. There was something so good, so marvelously sublime about this game, about this opponent, that his whole being was practically vibrating with the wonder of it all. The feeling was gloriously new and yet agonizingly familiar, for he had felt something similar to this once before.

Only a few times in his life, a remarkably splendid few, had he felt this impassioned, this alive, and only when facing Echizen Ryoma. Though not solely when playing tennis with him. Only Echizen could make his blood burn like fire in his veins. Only Echizen could make the world taste crisper, more delectable upon his tongue as he simply breathed in the air around him.

When Echizen had gone, when he'd all but vanished into the void, the world had become a dull, stale place that had far too little to offer one Tezuka Kunimitsu. When it had finally dawned on Tezuka that Echizen was never coming back, there was a place deep within him that had subsequently withered and died, a part of him that had been unconsciously waiting all those years to be imbued with such dynamic emotions again. It was terribly ironic, he thought, to have discovered far, far too late what his own heart secretly longed for. His regret was sharp and bitter that he had ever let him go, that he had once stood side by side with brash, impudent splendor and had lamentably pushed him onward. Left floundering in Echizen's wake, Tezuka's life had become nothing more than a monotonous, well-worn routine without any relief in sight.

Except now there was this, _tennis_, once again, and the magnificence that it was struck like a thunderbolt straight to the core. His body thrumming with pleasure, Tezuka lowered his racket a few precise millimeters and hit the ball just so. He watched with silent relish as it floated lazily over the net and dropped to the ground, then instantly rolled backward.

Ryuzaki simply stared at the ball a moment, his lips slowly curling upward with visible delight, before finally going to the net to retrieve it. It was then that Tezuka realized that Ryuzaki was enjoying this game just as much as he was.

Without uttering a word, Ryuzaki strode back to the baseline and prepared to serve again. His posture seemed a bit different as he threw the ball in the air; the angle of the racket appeared different, as well. As the ball bounced with a swirl and then leapt toward his face, Tezuka was quick to figure out why. A twist serve. Now that Tezuka had conquered his leading serve, Ryuzaki had summarily changed tactics. Springing backward, Tezuka managed to avoid the ball, but not to return it.

"Forty - thirty. Let's not get careless, Sensei," Ryuzaki mocked with an obviously feigned nonchalance. Then he cast up another ball exactly as before. Tezuka was ready for the serve this time as the ball lurched toward his face and stepped back to receive it.

Ryuzaki might be enjoying the game as much as he was, but did he have to be so arrogant about it? Tezuka found his attitude to be more than annoying to say the least. The ball came skyrocketing back seconds later and Tezuka slammed it forward once again. There was something irritatingly familiar about the man's demeanor, as well. Perhaps because his arrogance seemed to rival Atobe's in magnitude if not in actual manifestation. Ryuzaki was far more subtle than that. In fact, he reminded him more of—

Tezuka stumbled a little as he reached for the ball, yet still managed to send it darting over the net. His mind, however, had shifted abruptly into overdrive, flitting rapidly, desperately, through the afternoon's events. One by one the disjointed pieces flew together, sliding easily, flawlessly, into place. There was no stray factor that _didn't_ fit into the picture now coming into focus before his vision: the grape Ponta, the court in the backyard, the blunt speech, the cocky grin, the left hand, the astonishing skill level, the tennis, the tennis, the _tennis_.

Tezuka stumbled again, yet this time plunged painfully to his knees. Utterly abandoned, the ball shot uncaringly past him. His racket fell from paralyzed fingers to the hard surface of the court.

"Sensei?" he heard him call out in concern. His footsteps drew harrowingly closer. "Hey, you all right?"

Dazed and benumbed, his mind reeling wildly from the shock, Tezuka shook his head, partly in denial and partly in an attempt to clear it. Then his eyes rose almost against his will to the dark-haired man standing across from him at the front of the net. Slowly, meticulously, with wide eyes and a stupefied gaze, he took in every perceivable feature: the cut and color of his hair, the high curve of his cheek, the stubborn set of his jaw, the negligible expression on his lips. Staring helplessly up at him, Tezuka's mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Then finally there came a single, soft, half-strangled word.

"Echizen."

The man went instantly still. Then the concern smoothed away from his visage, and his mouth thinned into a flat, emotionless line. Even before it was confirmed, Tezuka knew it to be the truth. The man's lips twisted wryly.

"Mada mada da ne, Sensei," he said, his inflection cool and rife with biting sarcasm. With that, Echizen Ryoma turned on his heel and strode wordlessly off the court. He paused only to drop his racket off at the table and to collect his half-finished can of Ponta. Then he tugged open the sliding door and disappeared into the house.

Tezuka could only gape at the empty doorway in incredulous awe. His entire body was frozen numb with an icy, uncomprehending disbelief.

Echizen…

That was _Echizen_.

This whole time, he had been talking, arguing, _playing_…

…with _Echizen_.

No wonder he had felt so good, so miraculously alive. It had been no miracle at all, only Echizen… though perhaps that alone was a miracle in and of itself.

Echizen was here. Not lost, not gone, but actually, physically, _here_. The reality of that was finally starting to sink in, though the meaning and all the possible ramifications of it… his mind couldn't even begin to wrap around those yet. He had so many questions…

And Echizen must think him an absolute idiot. All this time, not seeing him, not recognizing him… he _was_ an idiot. How could he hope to apologize for such a stupid, tactless error? Echizen had every right to be angry.

And angry he was.

After dazedly receiving that cold, caustic remark, Tezuka had been all but dismissed as Echizen stalked deliberately away from his presence. The pain that erupted from that sudden realization was acute enough to jolt him out of his stupor.

Blinking away the aberrant moisture in his eyes, Tezuka forced his limbs to move, only to discover that said limbs were presently aquiver with violent, uncontrollable tremors. He immediately closed his lashes against the pain and fought to regain control of himself. Several long, deep breaths were heaved in and out of his lungs as Tezuka carefully rebuilt his composure. He _would not_ fall apart in front of Echizen—if Echizen would even see him again after this.

When his eyes finally opened, his emotions had calmed somewhat and the tremors had minimized to an acceptable level. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Tezuka pushed himself cautiously to his feet. Thankfully they held. He took his time picking up the discarded racket and transporting it over to the table. With almost reverent care he laid it beside the bright red one, and absently wondered if it was the same racket Echizen had used all throughout his freshman year. When he was done, he was once again in full possession of his faculties.

It was time.


	2. Buchou

**Disclaimer:** Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi and other people who are not me.

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**A Court of Appeals**

part 2

It was time.

With only a minor twinge of trepidation, Tezuka stepped into the kitchen, his gaze instantly drawn to the dark-haired man still lingering inside. Echizen had his back to him as he was currently pulling something from the refrigerator, but then he turned and shut the door with his elbow, a bottle of water clasped in his hand.

Tezuka could not halt the abrupt surge of electricity that sizzled feverishly down his back as he was suddenly confronted with Echizen's glittering gold eyes. Those eyes seemed to stare right through him, peeling away Tezuka's every layer of protection and exposing him brutally to the light of day, just as they always had. No one else could pierce through his walls so effortlessly, nor so effectively. No one else could make him feel so open and vulnerable. No one else had the power to truly and profoundly hurt him. Tezuka struggled yet again to maintain his composure as he carefully returned that bold, penetrating stare.

It was Echizen who finally broke the standoff, his eyebrow suddenly arching upward in amusement. Then he moved with casual ease toward Tezuka and wordlessly shoved the water bottle into his hand. Blinking up at him expectantly, he then plopped himself down in a nearby chair at the kitchen table, his discarded sunglasses and his grape Ponta can already laid out before him. With a careless wave, he gestured for Tezuka to sit, as well. After just a moment of perplexed vacillation, Tezuka complied.

There were so many things that Tezuka wanted to ask him, so many unanswered questions ricocheting frenziedly through his head. Why had he retired? Where had he been? So many years of where had he been. Why had he never returned? Why was he back now? The list went on and on endlessly, relentlessly, and yet Tezuka said nothing. It wasn't his place to pry, after all.

As a result, they simply sat there together without speaking for a long, discomforting while, quietly sipping their respective drinks, unobtrusively relearning each other's faces, until the awkwardness and disconcertion eventually began to wane. Then a peculiar sort of peace descended, settling warmly, tranquilly, in the atmosphere around them, and Tezuka belatedly remembered that, as well. Echizen also possessed the power to soothe him, his very presence a soft, becalming breeze.

"Dad?"

Tezuka didn't know how long they had been sitting there like that, but when that small, halting voice broke the silence, it seemed as loud as it was startling. Both their heads turned immediately at the sound of it.

"What is it, Sakuya?" Echizen asked softly.

Several befuddled heartbeats passed before Tezuka recalled that this boy was his son. Ryuzaki Sakuya was Echizen Ryoma's _son_. Then number of questions resonating in Tezuka's skull multiplied a hundred-fold.

The boy's eyes appeared to be opened to their fullest extent as they flickered incredulously back and forth between the two of them. "I-I was watching… from my window," he said with an astounded whisper. "The _game_." As if that said it all. Which, in fact, it did. Sakuya rambled on nonetheless.

"I've never seen a game like that before," he went on, his youthful voice rising in pitch. "You guys were amazing! Dad, I didn't know you could play like that. You've never played _me_ like that. That serve! And the other one, too! You _have_ to show them to me again. Oh, and, Tezuka-sensei! That drop shot! That was incredible! How did you make it roll _backward_ like that?"

Echizen simply stared at the boy as he babbled on, his eyes slowly blinking at him in owlish wonder. Then he leaned in a little closer to Tezuka. "Sorry, he sometimes gets like this when he's a bit overexcited."

"Dad!" Sakuya protested loudly, his cheeks going abruptly scarlet.

"What?" he returned calmly, his inflection perfectly even. "You carry on like a raving maniac, you think I'm not going to call you on it?"

"But, Dad! I know you were once a pro and all—but I've watched the professional tournaments before, and I'm telling you that I've never seen _anyone_ play like that!"

"He really is such a nice, quiet boy most of the time," Echizen said matter-of-factly.

"Dad!" Sakuya squealed again in exasperation. "Are you going to answer me or not?"

"Did you hear a question in there somewhere?" he asked Tezuka.

Swiftly choosing the wisest course of action, Tezuka remained silent and merely watched the playful antics with mounting amusement.

"Dad! Are you, like, the best in the world or what?"

Echizen paused at that, his head cocking sideways as if in deep contemplation. "Hmmm," he said finally, "I can't really say for sure."

"How come?"

"Well, because Tezuka-sensei and I haven't finished our game yet."

At that, Tezuka blinked, startled by the lighthearted reply and the raw, honest veracity he heard peppered liberally within it. For half a second, it even seemed to satisfy the boy's prattling curiosity.

"Will you teach it to me, then?" he asked, his brown eyes wide and pleading. "That serve. Either one of them." His gaze jumped to Tezuka. "How about you, Sensei? Could you teach me that drop shot?"

Though still mildly entertained, Tezuka found that the boy's impassioned request was not so easily dismissed. In fact, it was in complete accord with the reason he had come to this house in the first place. Nevertheless, Tezuka knew the decision wasn't really up to him. His gaze slanted inquiringly toward Echizen. After learning the surprising truth of the boy's lineage, Tezuka's desire to bring Sakuya into the tennis club had merely intensified.

What could Echizen possibly have against that? His words ran once again through Tezuka's memory, but still they made little sense to the tennis coach. Sakuya seemed emotionally stable enough to him. Only… the meaning behind many of Echizen's previous statements had changed significantly in light of his true identity. He had been a Seigaku regular in the school tournaments. So, then, what had Echizen been trying to tell him? Had that been his own personal regret talking?

Echizen returned his gaze with an unfathomable impassivity. "You haven't won anything yet," he said.

"I haven't lost yet, either," Tezuka countered evenly.

"Che."

Echizen's eyes shifted once more to his son, studying him intently, then narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Is that what you really want, Sakuya?" he asked him finally, his voice stained with a near intangible shade of melancholy. "Do you want Tezuka-sensei to be your coach? Do you want to join the tennis club?"

Tezuka hadn't thought it possible for the boy's eyes to get any wider until they did exactly that. "I thought you didn't like school tennis," Sakuya replied.

"I never said I didn't like it, I simply said I wasn't sure it was for you," Echizen returned softly. "Once you start playing for others… once you start seriously competing, everything's going to change. That's mostly my fault," he said, dropping his gaze a moment. "When everyone discovers that you're my son, they'll all be watching you, probably more closely than anyone else. They'll write about you in the newspapers—about both of us. They'll compare us, our personalities, our playing styles, and expect more from you than they should. That's a lot of pressure, Sakuya. I'm just not sure if you're ready to handle all of that."

The boy appeared to absorb this quickly, his expression one of sudden illumination, as if he just now figured out the answer to a particularly confusing riddle. Tezuka was well acquainted with the feeling. In fact, right that very moment, he was experiencing his own private epiphany at Echizen's revealing words.

"Dad…" Sakuya's hushed tone was now permeated with an abashed understanding, his gaze trained on his shoes. "I'm fine, Dad… really."

"Are you sure? I really want you to think about this, Sakuya. There's no rush. You have all the time in the world to make this decision. I'm not going to lie to you. It's a great feeling you get when you win a tournament, but you lose a little more of your privacy every time you do so."

"Is that why you stopped?"

"Partly," he said, a small, wry smile stealing over his lips. "The serious lack of proficient opponents had a lot more to do with it, however."

"You got bored," Tezuka asserted dryly, scarcely believing his ears.

Echizen glanced over at him sharply. "Che, you go play those pansies for four years straight, Buchou, and then maybe you can criticize me."

Tezuka merely lifted a brow in response.

Sakuya, on the other hand, was frowning in puzzlement. "Buchou?"

Echizen blinked in surprise, apparently just then realizing his mistake.

"I was the captain of the tennis club when your father went to Seigaku," Tezuka explained.

"You were in the tennis club, Dad?"

Shooting Tezuka a withering glare, Echizen practically grouched out his reply. "Yes, I suppose I was. After all, none of them really knew how to play before I got there."

"As I recall, it was the other way around."

"Che, all of this is completely irrelevant," Echizen said, waving his hand dismissively. "Sakuya, why don't you take a few days to think about what you really want to do. If you truly believe you're ready to take on the tournaments and everything they entail, then I won't stand in your way. I'll back whatever decision you make."

A grin exploded across Sakuya's features as if he'd just been handed the sun, itself. "Can I go tell Grandpa?" he asked, excitement nearly bursting from his voice.

Clamping a hand down over his face, Echizen quietly groaned. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Obviously you and the old man have some sort of secret collaboration going on. I can't believe you listen to anything that idiot says."

"Thanks, Dad!" the boy crowed happily, startling his father with a grateful hug. He was darting out the front door a few seconds later.

"Hey, don't let him show you any more of those damned magazines!" The door slammed shut before Echizen finished the sentence. Exhaling loudly, his fingers wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Thank you so much for your thoughtful and timely visit, Tezuka-sensei," he muttered.

Tezuka chose not to respond. He wasn't about to apologize for winning the argument, nor for acquiring Sakuya, as it was clearly what the boy wanted. And he most certainly was not going to apologize for finally finding Echizen again after all these years. At the troubled expression on Echizen's face, however, he decided a few words of reassurance might be in order.

"He's going to be fine, Echizen," he said. "This was the right thing to do."

The hand fell away and Echizen's eyes rose to meet his, but the worry was etched far deeper into his visage than Tezuka had realized. "So speaks the pillar," he drawled.

Tezuka bristled beneath the blatant sarcasm.

"No offense, Buchou, but you really don't know my son all that well," he went on, his eyes radiating a keen, heated intensity. "Sakuya is nothing like me. Things don't bounce off of him quite so easily. So just keep that in mind before you go laying all that pillar crap on him, okay? You got what you came for today, so let's just leave it at that. Che, you always were too damned good at getting what you wanted out of me," he tacked on sullenly, finishing the blunt tirade in a low, petulant mumble.

Each and every word was like a slash across the heart, stinging, scourging, scarring, and at the conclusion of them, Tezuka didn't know how he was supposed to respond. Was that really what Echizen thought of him? Did he resent Tezuka's actions from middle school that much? Stricken and smarting from the assault, Tezuka felt his body rise to its feet as if from outside himself. Then he was bowing, rigid and wooden.

"I'm sorry for any inconvenience," he heard himself say, his voice sounding cold and distant. Then he was moving, stiffly, numbly, toward the front door. His hand reached for the knob—

"Why didn't you turn pro?"

The question came lashing at his back, swift and harsh, halting Tezuka instantly in his tracks.

"I waited for four years, but you never came. None of you did."

Tezuka's breath caught in his throat, along with a hard, aching lump of astonishment. There was no mistaking the emotions churning vehemently behind those bitterly spoken words. Jagged shards of pain, betrayal, and a bleak, splintering loneliness. Releasing the doorknob, he slowly turned around to face him. Echizen was now standing tightfisted at the edge of the kitchen, his eyes flashing with blistering accusation.

He had been… waiting?

"I… the timing was…" But it was a pitiful response, even to his own ears.

"Yes, so you said. But what exactly does that mean?"

Taking a deep, repossessing breath, Tezuka tried again. "I had promised my grandfather that I would finish college first," he said.

"So why didn't you after that?" he pressed.

Forcing himself to hold that exacting gaze, Tezuka hesitated but a moment before answering, completely unmerciful to them both in his rendition of the truth. "Because, after graduation I looked around and saw there was a serious lack of proficient opponents."

Echizen blinked as his own words were calmly returned to him.

"By the time I graduated," Tezuka expounded softly, "you were no longer there."

The sudden realization appeared to impact heavily, Echizen's eyes going wide with shock. They gaped at him openly for several intensive moments before slowly scrolling shut under the onerous weight. Then Echizen lowered his head and released a sigh, agonizingly deep and saturated with self derision.

"So, what you're telling me is that I was too impatient," he said, striving to conceal the pain the admission engendered. His lashes fluttered open, his eyes revealing it explicitly nonetheless.

The irony of the situation was near crushing it its oppression, as was the anguish in those golden eyes. Setting aside his own aching heart, Tezuka made a minor attempt to alleviate it. "It would hardly be the first time," he said. His effort earned him a sheer ghost of a smile, though the pain did not recede.

"You still could have done it," Echizen murmured. "I would have come back."

Of all the things he had said that day, from jeering taunts to angry denouncements, it was this that hurt the most. Tezuka could only stand there, reeling helplessly in the wake of it, and stare. The very air of the room felt thick and excruciating as Echizen gazed back at him, an entire universe of regret burning grievously in his eyes.

"It's almost funny," he said, his voice low and husky. "I left to go search for something that I might have actually found if I had just stayed put."

The expression on Tezuka's face must have shown some evidence of his bewilderment, for Echizen ruefully shook his head and went on.

"It was right after I had won the US Open that last time," he said. "The old man talked me into coming here with him for a few weeks. He likes to come back to Japan every once in a while, whenever the mood strikes him. Which is why, I guess, I even went to Seigaku in the first place. Anyway, it was sometime during that first week that Sensei came to see us… and she brought her granddaughter with her. Do you remember her? Ryuzaki Sakuno?"

Tezuka was startled by the name as his mind instantly made the jump in logic. Of course he remembered her; he was the one who spent the most time with Sensei, after all. Sakuno's face leapt into memory: large brown eyes, a shy, heartfelt smile, long braided hair. And then all he could see was Sakuya. Ryuzaki Sakuya looked just like her. Blinking at the realization, Tezuka nodded in reply.

"Heh, I knew you'd been wondering," Echizen said, one corner of his mouth twisting up. "Well, she was the one who told me what had happened to everyone at that time. It was weird, because I'd always envisioned everyone staying together. It was stupid, I know, but whenever I looked back that's just how I pictured things. I also thought that at least some of you would turn pro after high school. At the very least, you, Buchou. But when Sakuno told me how everyone had scattered to their various jobs and universities, I didn't know what to think. It… it felt as if something had been lost to me, something really important, and what made it worse was the fact that I had been the one to abandon everyone first. I guess I just took it for granted that everyone would always be there. All of a sudden, I felt like I had totally screwed up my life. I looked at myself and realized I had nothing… nothing real, anyway.

"Everything had become so superficial," he continued. "Everyone around me wanted something from me, but nothing meaningful, nothing beyond my tennis. They didn't even really see me, so I never looked at them in return. The only time I could recall ever connecting with anyone was here, while I was at Seigaku. Even the tennis had become bland in comparison. And there was Sakuno standing before me, reminding me of everything I had left behind, everything I had lost, and she was looking right at me. She saw me; she was completely blind to all that other crap and just saw me. It had been a long time since anyone had done that."

A smile curved his lips then, tiny, wistful and sad. "Did you know that she actually loved me, Buchou? I've had a lot of girls tell me that, but Sakuno actually meant it. Do you know how good that felt to be really loved like that? Heh, I'm such an ass, though… I couldn't love her back. I left her and Japan and went back to America. Then a few weeks later I announced my retirement and took off for parts unknown. I never knew about Sakuya, and she never told anyone he was mine. I'm sure Sensei would have hunted me down and lynched me, otherwise."

Echizen paused then, his expression falling further, his gaze dropping to the floor. His hands slid absently into the pockets of his shorts. "It was my dad who told me. They'd contacted him searching for me. Sakuno had never told anyone, but it's my name on the birth certificate. She was killed about nine months ago. Some stupid car accident. I thought it best to keep Sakuya's life as close to the way it had been with her as possible, so here I am, and here we are. He and I are still adjusting, still getting to know each other, and I know he misses her more than he ever lets on. He's like her that way, always trying to be positive."

His gaze found Tezuka again, filled with a wry, weary despondence. "I don't resent anything that you did for me, Buchou. I've always been grateful. It's just that Sakuya isn't me, and I don't know how much more he can handle right now."

Unable to form a proper response, Tezuka merely considered him, slowly absorbing everything he had said. It vaguely occurred to him that he had just received more information about Echizen straight from the source, himself, than from all the previous times put together. So much had happened since they'd last seen one another; he had been through so much. And Sakuya… Echizen was right, he would not have guessed that the boy had suffered such a terrible recent tragedy. Echizen's deep-felt concern and overprotectiveness now made perfect sense. But the rest of it…

Did Echizen really think it so peculiar that someone might love him for something other than his tennis? Tezuka thought of Ryuzaki Sakuno and the obvious crush she'd had on Echizen at school, expecting a small twinge of jealousy at her fortune—or misfortune, depending on how one looked at it—yet felt only sympathy along with a strange, piteous affinity for the girl. People loving Echizen was hardly an unusual occurrence. Loving Echizen was easy. It was letting him go that was hard.

"Hey, Buchou," he said quietly, pulling Tezuka from his thoughts, "you never answered my question."

Tezuka shook his head slightly. At the moment, he couldn't recall a question being asked.

"Do you know how good it feels to be loved like that?" he said, echoing his earlier query. His eyes were affixed, watching Tezuka intently. "Heh, of course you're probably married or something by now."

Astounded by the question, Tezuka blinked, and then quickly strove to re-gather his senses. A tiny crease furrowed his brow. "I'm not married," he said. "I… I…" How was he supposed to answer _that_? But then the words came, rolling roughly, raggedly, across his tongue.

"When people look at me, they don't really see me, either," he said. "Probably even less so. It's difficult… _I_ am difficult to understand. No one has sincerely tried to get past the surface. So, I guess the answer to your question is no. Although, why you needed to know that, I don't—"

"Do you want to?" he broke in softly, tilting his chin. "Do you want to know what that feels like? Even just once?"

"I… I suppose I would," Tezuka returned blindly, feeling a bit dazed by the unfamiliar gleam in Echizen's eyes. "Perhaps someday I'll be—"

"How about now?" he said, taking a casual step forward, his hands emerging from his pockets. Slowly, purposefully, he drew near.

The line of confusion in Tezuka's forehead crinkled further.

"I see you, Buchou," he went on, coming to a halt before him. "I've always seen you. Just always had trouble getting you to look back." His mouth curled with the barest whisper of sadness. "Even with you it was always about my tennis. It's okay, though… I can accept that. If you can accept this, just this once…"

Tezuka didn't even have time to breathe before Echizen's lips brushed lightly, astonishingly, against his own, the pressure soft and warm as they gingerly caressed. Then he forgot to breathe altogether as they slid open to encompass his completely, Echizen's tongue gliding over them as he intermittently sucked and nibbled. Strong hands encircled Tezuka's waist, then eased up his back with skillful, leisurely fingers. And Tezuka was instantly lost.

His throat made an odd, strangled sound, and then he sank into Echizen's embrace, into his persistent kiss, wholly submersing himself in his sweet, demanding warmth. Shuddering with pleasure, Tezuka avidly drank him in, drawing Echizen's tongue into his mouth for a long, stroking taste. Echizen responded with a low, reciprocating moan, impelled by Tezuka's abrupt immersion.

Their kiss immediately intensified, as did the hands gripping Tezuka's back, Echizen's fingers suddenly digging into his flesh. Tezuka's arms coiled tightly around the shorter man's muscular form, tugging him close, pressing against him with a need that had been smoldering deep within for well over a decade. He held him there for as long as he could, as long as Echizen would allow, afraid that if he let go he would lose him again or wake to find this to be just another illusion in an endless series of dreams. So when Echizen did finally draw back, panting heavily, a tremor of trepidation shivered up Tezuka's spine.

Golden eyes peered up at him, half-lidded and on fire. "This way," he murmured breathlessly, his voice thick and husky with a profound, almost desperate, yearning.

Stunned by the force of that bright, unambiguous desire, Tezuka could do nothing but trail mutely after as Echizen took his hand and started toward the staircase. The pressure on his hand was firm, the warmth, gratifying and genuine. This was no dream. And this time, wherever Echizen was going, he was taking Tezuka with him.


	3. Ryoma

**Disclaimer:** Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi and other people who are not me.

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**A Court of Appeals**

part 3

As the wondrous, white-hot blaze of pleasure began to wane, other sensations came drifting hazily to the forefront: his breathing coming fast and deep, the sticky sheen of sweat slowly cooling his tingling skin, and the too-warm, too-heavy weight wholly pinning him to the sheets. Without a second thought, Ryoma coiled his arms around that uncomfortable mass of damp flesh and boneless muscle and held him close. Tezuka could lie there crushing him into the bed for as long he damned well pleased. In fact, a significant part of him was wishing desperately that he'd do just that. Anything, just let them stay there like this forever.

Slowly Ryoma let his fingers trace the contours of Tezuka's back, carefully savoring the smooth texture of his skin, every rise and dip of his spine, committing them to memory as best he could. Pressing his face into the warm curve of his neck, Ryoma breathed in his scent with cherishing reverence.

Tezuka-buchou.

He had been wanting this since he was twelve. Well, maybe not to this extent, exactly, but he had wanted to be with Tezuka then, nonetheless. Back then, he was always trying to please Tezuka, to make him proud, to gain his attention, and, most of all, to defeat him. Ryoma had believed he'd finally achieved that goal and had gone on to the US Open with no regrets. When he'd returned, however, he'd been confronted with an image of a perfected Tezuka playing in the Nationals, and he knew then that their rivalry would never be over. And that he never wanted it to be.

Yet, afterward, Tezuka had once again spurred him forward to continue the path to the world. With his inspiration in mind, Ryoma had conquered that world more swiftly and easily than anyone had predicted. Well, anyone but himself. Tezuka, however, had never taken that path, and when Sakuno had related that fact so simply and so innocently, Ryoma had finally abandoned hope and everything that went along with it. But when he had seen Tezuka standing there today, on the patio in his own backyard…

His heart had immediately jolted to life, hammering wildly, furiously, in his chest. For a moment, he had thought Tezuka had actually tracked him down, that he had actually come to see him, but the truth of that had been made plainly and painfully clear.

Tennis. It was always about tennis. And not even his own this time.

In reaction, Ryoma had quickly and shamelessly altered that, his competitive spirit instantly being rekindled even as an ugly jealousy toward his own son was insidiously spawned. His concern for Sakuya was quite real, but that was not the only reason he had been so adamantly opposed to the idea.

How pathetic could he get? To be jealous of his twelve-year-old son… and now he'd given up any semblance of pride just to have Tezuka here like this, in his arms, in his bed, just for this one time. Oh, but he had wanted him so badly…

After seeing him, playing him… Tezuka was the same. He had hardly changed at all—except he actually was thirty now instead of just seeming like he was. He looked so good… so damned good…

Tezuka _was_ good. He was more than Ryoma had ever imagined. The taste of him, the feel of him, was utterly exquisite, and Ryoma didn't know how he was ever going to let him go again after this.

The confining weight moved suddenly as Tezuka stirred, and Ryoma had to stop himself from clutching him back when that weight finally lifted. Tezuka shifted carefully to the side, his hazel eyes open and coming to a warm, scrutinizing rest on Ryoma's features. The sight of him made Ryoma's heart clench in his chest. Bereft of his glasses, his hair damp and disheveled, his expression uncharacteristically soft—Tezuka was absolutely breathtaking. And, oh, did it _hurt_.

Blinking rapidly, Ryoma pushed himself up and took a quick, tremulous breath. "Sakuya will be home soon," he mumbled, climbing shakily out of the bed. He blindly began to retrieve his clothing. "The old man always insists on a game and my mom on feeding him, but then he'll be on his way. You can use the shower in here if you want. I'll use one of the others."

He didn't look back. If he had, he would have surely crumbled before the man, then and there. He showered swiftly, mechanically, and then threw his clothes back on. Then he made his way down to the kitchen and saw that neither Tezuka nor Sakuya were there yet. Ryoma was considerably relieved.

His hands were trembling uncontrollably as he pulled a can of Ponta from the refrigerator, so much so that he had trouble getting the thing open. He slammed it down on the counter mere moments later, frustrated by the stupid pop top that _would not_ lift.

"Che!"

Fine. He needed something stronger anyway. Ryoma yanked open the cupboard and grabbed a glass, then began searching for something to put in it. After only a few chafing minutes, however, he gave up. If there had ever been any liquor in the house then his father had probably swiped it.

Stupid old man.

With a growl of anger he slammed the glass down next to the can. It promptly shattered in his hand.

"Damn it!" he hissed.

Pain darted up his arm as the pieces settled on the counter, the clear shards abruptly staining red beneath his palm. Wincing, Ryoma painfully gripped his wrist and drew it closer to inspect the damage. There was a small gash in the crease of his palm, just below his thumb.

Not only pathetic, but also an idiot.

"Echizen?"

Oh, please…

Tezuka's hand, warm and gentle, was suddenly wrapped around his wrist; he then tugged it effortlessly upward to examine the wound for himself.

"What happened?" he questioned softly.

Ryoma simply glared off to the side, thinking the answer was rather obvious.

Tezuka wordlessly guided him to the sink. A moment later Ryoma's bleeding hand was being held under the cold water of the faucet. The silence lasted for a brief while as the blood was carefully washed away. After turning off the water, Tezuka then collected some paper towels from the roll beneath the cupboard and pressed them lightly to the wound.

"What is the matter?" he asked, the timbre of his voice unusually tense.

"Nothing." Ryoma kept his gaze deliberately averted.

The silence fell again, unbearably more oppressive than before, and Ryoma had no clue at all how to alleviate it. He wished he was better at concealing his emotions, that he could look up without strain and give Tezuka one of his biggest smirks and effortlessly pretend his heart _wasn't_ breaking into aching fragments of loneliness all over again even as they stood there.

"I should wrap this properly," Tezuka said finally, a troubled note of uncertainty entering his tone.

"It's fine."

At the sound of Ryoma's terse, clipped words, Tezuka slowly lowered his head in defeat; he then released Ryoma's hand. They stood there for another long, agonizing while without speaking, the stillness once more excruciatingly constrained. It was Tezuka, once again, who eventually broke it.

"I should be going then," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

Freezing instantly in place, Ryoma could not bring himself to reply.

"Good-bye, Echizen." And with that, Tezuka evaporated from Ryoma's peripheral vision.

All the warmth drained from Ryoma's face, from his limbs, from his heart, leaving nothing behind but a cold, bleak chill. He heard the door open and then quietly close, and flinched at the harsh finality of the sound as it thundered grievously in his ears. A deep, agonizing pain shuddered through his being, and he cracked under the force of it, his soul splintering into a thousand bleeding pieces.

What had he done? How could he have done this to himself? He _knew_ it would end like this, that he would hurt like this. But the sad, sick truth of the matter was that Ryoma also knew he would do it again, in a heartbeat, because in spite of everything, Tezuka had been _worth _it. He was worth any pain, any sacrifice, all pride and any sting of embarrassment. If he had to crawl on his hands and knees…

His heart spasmed violently in his chest, threatening to burst as the pain coiled tautly around it. His throat constricted, emotion swelling and nearly choking him with its venom.

He hadn't done enough. He hadn't tried hard enough. What was he doing? How could he just let him go like that? Again? So what if it was only about tennis? At least they had that between them. If he played hard enough, good enough, then maybe… just maybe…

Ryoma was halfway to the door before he even realized he was moving; then his hand was on the knob, flinging it open…

Tezuka stood unmoving on the walkway, still just a few feet from the house. At the sound of the door, he turned; the expression on his face was characteristically blank, yet his eyes were permeated with a vast array of emotions that Ryoma could scarcely comprehend.

"Buchou," he said, talking quickly, "we haven't finished our match yet."

His hazel eyes immediately widened with astonishment, and then they cooled several icy degrees and bore steadily into him. "I have no more time for games, Echizen," he said brusquely.

"Mada mada da ne."

Tezuka's cheeks flushed a dark, angry red, his jaw tightly clenching. "Don't make this about tennis," he said, his voice dangerously low. "If all you wanted was to defeat me, you should have stayed on the court. The rest of it… was completely unnecessary. Or is your resentment toward me sincerely that profound?"

Taken aback by the unexpected anger, Ryoma stared at him in shock. "I already told you, I don't resent—"

"You don't?" he bit back harshly. "Your previous words and actions would indicate otherwise. Why else would you deal with me so callously? I pushed you back in middle school because I could see that if you truly dedicated yourself to tennis, there would be no limit to how high you could fly. I was your captain; it was my job to inspire you as best I could. If you feel my effort was a mistake, then the only defense I can offer is that I was only fourteen years old and I truly believed I was doing the right thing for you."

"I said I don't resent you for that!" he returned. "I don't resent you at all! I admit I was disappointed that you never turned pro, but that was only because I wanted you to so badly. I just wanted to play you! Why did you never understand that?"

"So you did this to get back at me for some perceived snub on my part?" Tezuka asked coldly. "Forgive me for having a life outside of tennis."

At that, Ryoma's vision went red. "Excuse me? You were the one who deliberately manipulated me, telling me to devote my life to tennis and Seigaku—become their damned pillar, right? Forgive me for believing you shared that same devotion."

"When you came to Seigaku, you were nothing more than an arrogant, self-absorbed little snot whose only goal in life was to defeat his own father. As your captain, did I try to broaden your talents and horizons just a bit? Certainly, I did. Did I try to teach you to respect and be responsible for your fellow teammates? Absolutely, I did. Would I have done the same had I known you would throw it all away less than five years later? I don't know. Perhaps I would have just tried harder."

Ryoma felt the words like a punch to the gut, and was left utterly winded in their wake, floundering helplessly in pain. "I didn't just throw it away. I went looking for something… something I had lost."

"By hiding from the world?"

"I didn't go into hiding," he protested. "America is a just a really big place. I simply went back to school. It's not my fault nobody ever recognized me. It wasn't like I was using an assumed name or anything."

"You went back to school?"

"Yeah, finished college, even. I guess I was trying to get back what I had here at Seigaku… you know, the friendships and everything. Never really did, though. For some reason people are put off by me."

"I can't imagine why," Tezuka said dryly.

"Look, I meant what I said before. I don't hold any grudges, Buchou. I'm really grateful for everything you did for me."

Tezuka keenly held his gaze, his eyes scrupulously narrowed. "Then why did you do this to me?" he asked bluntly.

Lowering his head, Ryoma scrambled blindly for a reply, his face burning with shame. "I… I told you… I just wanted…" His lashes closed over the pain. "I just wanted to be with you… even just this once. I'm sorry I couldn't handle it better… afterward. I just couldn't say good-bye to you. It just… really hurt, okay?"

Trembling surreptitiously, Ryoma held his breath and awaited Tezuka's response. The wait was long and crucifyingly arduous. When Tezuka finally spoke, his voice was unbelievably gentle and very, very near.

"I thought you said you could see me," he said. "If you could always see the real me, then you would know that it was never just about tennis. I just didn't want to hold you back, Echizen. I never dreamed that you would be waiting for me, just as I never dreamed that you wouldn't be there after I graduated."

Ryoma's eyelids fluttered open, and he glanced up at Tezuka in surprise. Tezuka was peering directly, intently, into Ryoma's face, his eyes softly aglow behind his lenses. His hand rose to brush lightly across Ryoma's cheek. Then Tezuka took a deep, quivering breath, apparently to calm apprehensive nerves.

"I think, perhaps, I have always loved you," he said huskily, "since I can't seem to recall a time when I didn't."

Ryoma simply stared at him, speechlessly, incredulously, as Tezuka's hand warmly cupped his cheek. The tremors racking his body significantly increased. Then his eyes fell closed once more as he turned his face into the hand, his lips grazing tenderly over the palm and fingers. Tezuka's other arm wreathed around him a moment later, his fingers twining possessively through Ryoma's hair. Another moment and Ryoma was pressed against the doorjamb being thoroughly and passionately kissed. It was a long, sensuous while before they finally surfaced for air, their lips barely parting as they slowly breathed in the other's breath.

"Hey, Buchou," he murmured softly against Tezuka's mouth, "I think I've always loved you, too."

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The End


End file.
